


Ambervale

by threewalls



Series: Schirra [61]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: 710 OV, Ambervale, Banter, Birth Control, Courtship, Cross-cultural, F/M, Politics, Post-Game(s), Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-24
Updated: 2007-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 10:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>This is supposed to be a state visit, not a courtship; she has other suitors.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	Ambervale

**Author's Note:**

> Written with thanks to lynndyre for beta.

Of all the outfits of state that form her travel wardrobe, Ashe's riding breeches are among the least splendid, but they shield her from injury and indignity as she stretches limbs to climb. There is no wind tonight. Sweat prickles through her hair. Her passage is slow; between the night and the oak's thick leaf cover she can only guess and test the distance and strength of nearby branches, but a less circuitous route is out of the question.

Queen Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca has come to Ambervale, in this the third year of her reign, a symbol of the renewed relationship between their countries, and of the implicit stability of her own. The past week has reflected that, having been one of formal introductions, formal exchanges of gifts, formal exhibitions of arms, formal negotiation of tariffs and tolls, formal tours of Ambervale's many gardens, galleries and shrines. All aspects of her itinerary meet with protocol, hers and theirs. The closest Ashe has come to being alone with Al-Cid has been evenings of damned formal Rozarrian dance where they seem to touch everywhere but where she wants him-- and even in those, she has been careful not to take more sets with him than anyone else. This is supposed to be a state visit, not a courtship; she has other suitors.

They can't be fooling anyone. She may curse how her cheeks emblazon her ardour, but Rozarrian male fashion has left her little doubt about his. Ashe has begun to miss being married so fiercely she aches. She no longer wants to wait.

Her leather-soled boots make but a soft sound when she lands onto Al-Cid's balcony.

The curtains into his rooms are drawn wide, and Al-Cid sits just on the other side of the glass, reading by the light of an oil lamp. His whole room is lit only by lamps, not stones, a warm, shifting darkness. Al-Cid is dressed for sleep, or perhaps something else, a loose robe belted over equally loose trousers, all in white cotton so sheer his skin colours through it. He nods at her, and then glances back at the book that he is closing as he stands.

Ashe pushes against the windows, stumbling over the threshold when the latch clicks open under her weight. They are, in fact, glass-paned doors.

"You were expecting me!" she accuses, re-gathering her balance.

"I would say rather that I had hoped."

Al-Cid takes her hand, and kisses it, but she's come here for more than courtesy. His robe comes off as easily as she had thought it might, and he laughs as she uses her body to press him further into the room. He steps back when she steps forward, rests his left hand on her shoulder.

"Rozarrian women are not-- so assertive in their pursuit."

Neither is she, but the grace with which he's taking this is hitting her hard, hot and low. Ashe glances around him for the bed. She steps, he steps and his pants fall.

"But barbarian queens?"

"Ah. They are unlike all other women."

Unlike his, her clothes are full of tiny fastenings, buttons and hooks, so Ashe makes Al-Cid undress her. He kneels to help steady her stepping out of her breeches, and she winds a hand in his long hair, dragging his mouth to her breasts. She likes him down there, taut silk around her fingers, but she wants him somewhere else more. Ashe tugs him up to kiss, forcing her tongue into his mouth. He tastes like the sweet mint tea that she has been drinking all week, that she would drink at home. Dalmasca and Rozzaria were once closer than this. She pushes him backwards and he lands on the bed.

Ashe attacks his mouth as she pins him between her thighs. Al-Cid struggles, but not hard enough to throw her, only to move them higher on the bed. His arms reach up towards the pillows, lamplight licking at the trails of sweat bright on his skin. Ashe likes the look of that, wishes she had thought of it, to have asked for it. And he's hard, hard for her, when they've only started, that will make it easier--

"I would not press my suit by carelessness." Al-Cid speaks against her lips, startling her, as he presses something into one of her hands. "It is a--"

"I know what it is." Ashe sits back, keeping his legs fixed between her folded knees, crumpling the paper envelope in her fist, but she doesn't throw it away, can't bear to look at it. Condoms had been the one and only sane aspect to that weekend with Vaan before her coronation. This wasn't supposed to be like that.

It's not for a prince to propose to a queen, but of all his many brothers Ashe has met this past week, there are no others beyond thirty without child, bride, or even fiancée. Of course, she also met Al-Cid's four _little birds_ , and, no, that test wasn't to see whether she could tell them apart, but to show her what she would replacing in his bed. "What kind of whore do you take me for?"

"I think you neither a whore nor a virgin, but a woman whose pleasures she must account to no one but herself." Al-Cid's face is composed but she can feel the truth of his flesh, feel his chest rise and fall as quickly as her own. "This is much as I am. You must know that you have had my heart these past three years, but you cannot think of me a monk."

Al-Cid won't look away. Will dark eyes always make her feel so--? Ashe wants to hit him.

But she cannot, or rather, she will not, because that will not change the fact that she cannot fault his arguments, or that they are more generous than she would have expected from a man. She didn't expect that he would argue at all.

Al-Cid is the politic choice for her to marry, in his rank, in his family, that he keeps the Law of the Light-- it still unnerves her that she also likes, wants him, though she hasn't told a living soul. But she can't second-guess the Gods forever.

"Any man married to Dalmasca will need must be chaste."

"You would--?"

Al-Cid pushes up to his elbows, his fine, dark Rozarrian lashes ringing wide eyes. Any man married to Dalmasca will need must never wear sunglasses in her presence, Ashe thinks, feeling light.

"You could--?" she shrugs.

"I could." He reclines; Al-Cid's smile is beautiful, if one forgives the smugness, and Ashe finds that she does. "But I think you will wish to wait to announce any such plans-- until after you leave my father's house."

Ashe nods, leaning forward over him; Al-Cid places a palm flat against the valley between her breasts to stop her. "And so, we are not married-- yet."

Ashe drops the crumpled envelope in the centre of his chest. Rubber wears harder than paper, and it will have to. "Put it on, then."


End file.
